Song of the Southern Sun
by pixiegal927
Summary: A fisherman of Ethir Anduin and his family fall victim to the seductive darkness of the Haradrim, while Faramir & the Rangers of Ithilien work to restore peace. A tale of dangerous betrayals, forbidden desires, and the everpresent lust for power.
1. Faeldor's Catch

A/N: It has been about three years since I wrote fanfiction. I wasn't sure I'd ever write one of these again, but what can I say? When inspiration strikes, it strikes.

A few notes before I begin.

This story is going to follow the books, loosely. I say "loosely" because I don't consider myself a purist, and I see nothing wrong with a little tweaking here and there. Most of my "tweakage" usually concerns timing, or order of events. But I don't believe in hardcore deformation of character, so don't worry, purists. You won't see Legolas falling head over heels for any Earth-born ladies here.

This story begins in early March of 3019. All of Tolkien's characters that appear (later) in this story are obviously not mine. Let's hear it for disclaimers.

Lastly, if any of my (former) avid readers (especially fans of "The Cold Touch of Rain") are reading this, I just want to say hello, and I hope that you all enjoy this as much as you enjoyed TCToR. And without any further delays….

--

CHAPTER ONE: Faeldor's Catch

Somewhere in the distance, a bird squawked loudly. Faeldor, a boy of seventeen years, turned his head towards the sound, squinting against the bright sunlight. He was able to make out a small black shape in the sky, which shrank in size as the bird flapped its wings violently, flying northwest and eventually disappearing behind the clouds.

"That bird has the right idea," he murmured to himself.

Faeldor sighed, sitting on the edge of his father's fishing boat. His own fishing rod lay untouched at his side, but he did not have the heart to pick it up. Every weekend since his tenth birthday, Faeldor's father would take him sailing in the Bay of Belfalas where they would catch fish together. "Someday, son," his father would always say, "this will all be yours."

The idea of following in his father's footsteps and becoming a great seaman of Ethir Anduin had always given Faeldor a sense of purpose. When he was younger, he used to watch his father fill heavy crates with the fish that they caught together on their weekend excursions in the bay. The crates would then be loaded onto a ship bigger than his father's. Faeldor remembered sitting on the shore, watching the big ships sail up the Anduin, fading into the horizon.

"Where are they going?" he would ask his father.

"They are sailing north," his father always replied. "To a beautiful city, with white flags and tall towers – taller than you can possibly imagine. Perhaps you will see it one day."

But after a while, the big ships began to slow down. Their arrivals were few and far between. Faeldor noticed that as the ships stopped coming, his father stopped smiling. Every so often, one would return, although such an occurrence was as rare as rain in the sunlight. Despite the ships' unpredictability, Faeldor and his father would sail into the bay religiously every weekend. With every fish he caught, Faeldor would hope that there would be a crate to put it in. The horizon was always waiting.

But somewhere along the line, Faeldor's hopes diminished. His dreams, which once glimmered with silver and gold, grew dull and lifeless. As he grew older, the bay began to feel smaller, and the horizon didn't feel so distant anymore. He felt as though he could reach out and touch it.

"Faeldor?"

Faeldor turned, seeing his father, a sandy-haired man named Thurandír, approaching. He was carrying his fishing rod at his side.

"Have you caught anything?" Thurandír asked, looking down at his son. Faeldor averted his gaze, watching his feet leave a trail in the water.

"No. Not yet."

"Son," his father said gently, sitting beside him, "what troubles you? Your eyes are shadowed as of late, and it has been too long since I have seen you smile. This is not the Faeldor I know."

Faeldor turned his father's words over in his mind slowly. He gazed up at the sky, carefully considering his response. The sun ducked behind a grey cloud, blending the blues of the water into one cold shade, and he shivered briefly.

"Tell me this," he finally said, turning his blue eyes up to his father. "What has become of the great city you once spoke of, with its white flags and towers? Because they obviously do not want our fish. I have not seen the great ships in months; Anduin is all but a ghost!"

"The market has been slow," Thurandír agreed. "With the growing shadow in the east, the people of Gondor have less need for our fish as they once did."

"Why not tell the truth?" Faeldor's voice rose to a new volume. "The people of Gondor have no need for our fish. The ships are never to return. I am not a little boy, father. I see the way you delicately speak of this matter in front of Mother and Coruwen. But you do not have to hide things from me."

Thurandír was quiet for a moment, and Faeldor began to wonder if he had gone too far. He stared at his father, waiting for a response. Thurandír swallowed thickly, and Faeldor's eyes flicked over his face, watching the muscles of his jaw contract and release. He was clearly holding back words, forcing them to the back of his throat.

"One day," Thurandír said softly, "you might be able to understand this. But for now, all I can do is tell you, in hopes that you will simply take my word for it."

"Tell me what?"

"My father was a great seaman of these lands, long ago. He taught me everything that I know about fishing, and boats, and the sea. For as long as I can remember, my life was consumed by sunrises and sunsets, tides and waves. When my father died, I was a little older than you are right now. I promised myself that I would become the best seaman that I could possibly be. I would live up to his name, to the standards that he set for me on that very first day that we fished together." Thurandír turned his head, locking eyes with his son. "As long as I have breath in my body, I will continue to fulfill my vow. I have many years of fishing left. And nothing, not even the clouds of the eastern lands, can stop me. I cannot simply give up on what my father built."

"And what if the great ships do not come?" Faeldor asked. "Are your efforts not all in vain?"

"They will come," Thurandír said confidently. "And when they do, we will have crates for them."

As if to emphasize his point, Thurandír cast his fishing line into the bay energetically. He threw a sideways glance to Faeldor, who could not help but grin.

"Fine," he said, picking up his own rod. His fingers surrounded the heavy stick, and he threw his arm back, letting the baited string sail over his head and into the water.

"Ah," Thurandír said with a chuckle. "A fine arm you have, my boy."

"I only learned from the – wooaaahh!" Faeldor cried out in surprise, feeling a strong tug on his line. He lurched forward, briefly losing his balance.

"Pull it in," his father instructed. "Just like I taught you."

Faeldor grunted an inaudible response as he began to draw in his catch. He gritted his teeth, placing his feet against the solid wood of the boat, and heaved his arms upward, sending the huge fish flailing into the air, still attached to his fishing line. The fish landed on the boat, flopping back and forth loudly, flinging droplets of water in every direction.

"My, my," Thurandír said softly, sounding impressed. "That is one of the biggest fish I have ever seen."

Faeldor grinned, jumping to his feet.

"It will need an even bigger crate then."

--

"Coruwen! Your father and brother will be home any moment now!" Gailrin's voice floated down the stairs of the small house on the shore. "Have you begun to prepare their tea?"

Coruwen glanced towards the staircase, sighing and rolling her eyes to the empty kitchen.

"Yes, mother!" she lied. She continued scrawling in her journal, quickening her pace and darting her gaze back and forth between the page and the doorway, keeping watch for her mother. When she had completed her thought, she snapped the red book shut and threw it carelessly on the windowsill. Racing across the room, she grabbed an already-filled pot of water and hung it above the fire. She was in the process of crushing tea leaves when Gailrin entered the room, casually putting pins in her long black hair.

"Good morning, Mother," Coruwen said, smiling brightly at her.

"Well!" Gailrin said, taking in her daughter's groomed appearance. "You certainly look lovely today. Do you have any special arrangements? Perhaps with a certain red-haired captain?"

Coruwen blushed under her mother's inspective gaze.

"Yes," she replied. "Pelilas and I are going to be having lunch by the water."

"Ah, of course." Gailrin's dark eyes twinkled happily, and she sat in a chair across from her daughter. "Tell me, Coruwen. Do you think that Pelilas and you will be married someday?"

"Mother!" Coruwen exclaimed, her green eyes widening. "I hardly know how to answer that!"

"Well, it is not an unreasonable question," Gailrin said with a shrug. "You are sixteen years old. He is of twenty years. It is time that you considered such things."

"Well, I will consider it. But not today."

The front door flew open just then, saving Coruwen from any of her mother's further interrogation. Thurandír and Faeldor walked in, their boots slick and smelling of the sea.

"You will not believe the size of the fish that Faeldor caught today!" Thurandír exclaimed, his voice vibrating with the kind of pride that only a father could feel for his son. Coruwen and Gailrin both got up to look at Faeldor's fish, and as they reveled in sensations of accomplishment and victory, all talk of marriage was forgotten. At least for the moment.

A/N: I have to say, it feels good to be at this again. Let me know what you think of the opening. It's going to get darker. Oh, will it. Cues ominous music


	2. Golden Dreams

A/N: I think getting 385 reviews on my last story spoiled me.

Tolkien's characters: still not mine.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Golden Dreams**

Pelilas felt as though he'd been skipping rocks all his life.

For years, he would pass the time by walking down to the bay's shore and sitting amongst sand and rock to think. When he was younger, he used to gaze out over the sea, searching the landscape for any sign of his father's ships. His father was a captain, and it was his job to transport goods up and down the Anduin. He traveled back and forth to northern Gondor, leaving with heavy crates and returning with empty ones. Pelilas used to love hearing tales of his father's adventures out at sea. He was never gone for too long, and always returned bearing gifts and exciting stories.

But shortly after Pelilas's sixteenth birthday, his father's trips north began to last longer and longer. Weeks would turn into months. When he would finally come home, he would be in a sour mood, and Pelilas knew better than to expect presents or stories. His father would stay at home for an unusually long period of time, and just when Pelilas would begin to think that he'd turned into a recluse, he would be packing for another journey. Gone was his father's enthusiastic passion for sailing. For a while, Pelilas asked him: Why aren't you traveling as often as you once did? What do you do in Northern Gondor all this time? Why are you so sad? But eventually Pelilas stopped asking questions.

This cycle endured for almost four years. During this time, Pelilas grew cold and bitter. He had heard whispers of a growing evil in the east, and he could sense the approaching shadow. He knew it was this darkness that kept his father away for so long, and then home even longer. But, try as he might, Pelilas could not put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. There was always something missing.

And so he continued to sit by the shore day after day, skipping rocks, just like when he was a little boy. Only now, Pelilas no longer looked for boats. This time, he was searching for answers.

As Pelilas palmed a smooth pebble and threw his arm back to launch it at the bay, he glanced about at his surroundings. The air, he noticed, felt strangely calm. There was an uneasy steadiness in the thick breeze, and the gentle waves of the bay were almost too quiet to bear. He heard the distant cry of birds, and suddenly felt consumed by the odd sensation that he wasn't alone.

Before Pelilas could begin to entertain the strange thoughts in his mind, he caught sight of several dark shapes against the clear blue horizon. As they drew nearer, Pelilas realized that they were actually a series of small boats heading in the direction of the Great River.

"Father!" Pelilas exclaimed aloud, his voice alive with a level of hope that he did not know he still possessed.

In efforts to get a better view, Pelilas jumped to his feet and sprinted towards a cluster of large rocks near the mouth of the river. He scrambled up to the highest rock and put his hands above his eyes to block out the strong sun. One of the boats, he slowly realized, was heading his way.

* * *

"Anborn!" Captain Faramir's voice cut through the air like a knife. "What are you doing? We do not stop until we reach Ithilien."

Anborn turned to face his captain, his brown cloak whipping in the breeze.

"I know this place," he said softly.

"As do I," Faramir replied with a chuckle. "It is the land of Ethir Anduin. Nothing but a fisherman's port. A desolate land of no importance to our plight."

"No," Anborn agreed, "but it is important to me. Please. Just for a minute."

Faramir paused, considering.

"Fine. But we cannot linger. I fear for the safety of this realm."

* * *

Pelilas's heartbeat quickened as one of the small ships veered off-course and headed for land. His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on the thin material of his jacket. He had not seen his father in almost six months, and although his heart was heavy with coldness, somewhere deep inside his soul, he still felt like a little boy. And right now, he was a little boy elated with expectation and hope.

But as the ship approached, Pelilas realized that it was much too small to be his father's. The sails were completely the wrong color; his father's were gold and black, and these were brown and green. There were four men on the boat, and at first glance, they seemed to be identical to one another. They were all clothed in green and brown, with gauntlets, capes, and hoods. Each one had a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his back, and they all bore the same stern expression and stormy eyes. As Pelilas took in their appearance, the corners of his memory began to fold, and he felt as though he heard whispers of a song that he could not remember the words to. He knew these men, or, perhaps, knew of them. Stories, legends, tales of old.

"The Rangers of Ithilien," Pelilas murmured under his breath, as though his voice had a will of its own.

The boat came to a halt, its pointy tip digging into the sand. One of the men jumped off, and the other three stayed behind, talking to one another. Pelilas regarded the first man closely, raking his eyes over his light brown beard and pale grey eyes.

"You," the man said, walking towards Pelilas. "I know you."

Pelilas raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He could not possibly imagine what this man was talking about.

"How?" Pelilas asked, but the man was lost in thought.

"Yes, now I remember," he said to himself softly. "The red-haired boy playing in the grass. Nemír's jewel, his hope."

"Nemír?" Pelilas repeated, suddenly all-ears. "You know my father?"

"Aye." The man smiled sadly. "My name is Anborn. I once lived in these parts, long ago."

"Anborn." Pelilas turned his name over, feeling the shape of the syllables, sensing the spark of recognition in his mind. "You lived across the stream! Faeldor and I used to play in your yard!"

"Yes," Anborn said with a chuckle. "How is young Faeldor? And his sister, Coruwen?"

"They are well," he replied. "In fact, Coruwen will be joining me soon. We are to have lunch together."

"I'm afraid I cannot stay." Anborn gestured to the other three men. "My company is on the move. We are heading up the Anduin, back to Ithilien. My captain is eager to continue our journey."

"Which one is he?" Pelilas asked, looking over Anborn's shoulder.

"Captain Faramir? He is the tall man on the end…the one who is glaring at me with those angry eyes. The other two are called Mablung and Damrod. We are--"

"Rangers of Ithilien," Pelilas finished for him. "I have heard of you before, but I never thought I would actually meet one. Before you leave, dear friend, can you tell me something?"

"If I am able to, I shall."

"I know something terrible is happening. I can feel it. Why are you heading to Ithilien in such a hurry? What is happening to Gondor?"

Anborn sighed, looking back at Faramir momentarily before turning his eyes to the eager Pelilas.

"I dare not speak of such matters too loudly," he said in a hushed voice. "There is evil all around us, and I feel as though the very air we breathe has ears with which to listen, and mouths with which to breathe secrets. You are right, young Pelilas, to assume thoughts of darkness. But worry not. The Rangers of Ithilien will meet our enemies head-on. Peace shall be restored."

"Anborn!" Faramir called. "Come. It is time."

"Fare thee well," Anborn said, taking a few steps towards his boat. "Tell your father that you saw me. Tell him I say hello."

"My father," Pelilas said, raising cold eyes to him, "is not here. He left for northern Gondor almost six months ago, and has not yet returned."

Anborn's grey eyes flickered with worry, which he tried to mask with a friendly smile.

"I am sure he will come home soon," he said, his voice hopeful.

"You know he will not," Pelilas replied, raising his voice. "You know something. Why hasn't my father come back? What could have happened to him?"

"Goodbye, Pelilas," Anborn said. His words were cold but his eyes sorrowful. It was obvious that he longed to stay and talk for hours, but it was as though he were being pulled towards his captain by some unknown force.

Pelilas watched him leave, feeling anger and frustration course through his veins. He paused before getting on the boat, and turned back. Anborn met his eyes briefly, and Pelilas had the fleeting thought of running after him and leaping on his boat. He could join the Rangers of Ithilien, beg Anborn and Faramir to teach him the ways of the bow. He could find his father.

Pelilas was about to break out into a run when he heard a lilting female voice call his name. He turned, seeing Coruwen running down the hill. She waved to him, her long hair flowing in the breeze like a flag. He waved back quickly before looking back to the shore. Disappointment and regret flooded his heart; the boat was leaving. He felt himself crashing back to reality, flying through the large amount of space between foolish dreams and dark truth. Pelilas laughed to himself. Who was he fooling? He was no fighter. He wouldn't last a minute.

Pelilas turned back towards the hill, ready to greet Coruwen when she approached. He would not let himself be overcome by anything as silly as hope. It was simply a waste of time.

* * *

"What were you and the boy discussing?" Faramir asked Anborn, once they had begun sailing once more.

Anborn was quiet for a moment before answering.

"The past," he said softly. "The way things were."

"Ah." Faramir tipped his head towards the sun and clapped a hand on his friends back. "Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts, Anborn. It will only lead to sadness. Those dreams are always golden. And they cannot be reclaimed."

Faramir gave another glance to Anborn before retreating to the back of the boat.

"Keep watch," he instructed. "There are wicked men who roam these shores."

* * *

A/N: Hell yeah there are. And hopefully we'll meet some in the next chapter or two. 


	3. The Man in Red

A/N: When I wrote "The Cold Touch of Rain", I got in the habit of replying to my reviewers at the beginning of every new chapter. I think that was a fine tradition, so here we go:

-Ian: Why thank you. And I think you may be onto something…fanfiction is indeed back. P.S. Thanks for being my encyclopedia.

-Sarahbarr17: I think you're onto something as well; March 3019…not looking so hot. I'm glad you like the bit about the Rangers of Ithilien. They are going to play an important role in this story.

-Lily: Aww. Thanks. ) It's good to be back. And you're right about that murky darkness…it's on its way.

-Rana Ningue: Reviewing mood swings…interesting! Well, lucky for you, I'm writing this chapter at 7PM, so you'll have something to read when the mood strikes you tonight. And as for my 385 reviews, believe me, I was more shocked than you probably are! I had no idea it would be such a big hit. It would be nice if I broke my record with this fic, but I'm not going to hold my breath. ;)

So, Tolkien's characters…let me check…nope, they're still not mine. (My disclaimer dances the mamba, how bout yours?)

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Man in Red**

Thurandír sat on the edge of his bed, reaching down to remove his heavy boots. He untied the mud-coated strings slowly, weaving them in and out of brass-covered hooks. When he glanced up, he noticed his wife standing in the doorway, regarding him silently.

"Sneaking up on your husband? Now that's not very nice," Thurandír joked. He watched Gailrin's face for any signs of amusement, but found none. Her features were devoid of all expression, and her usual level of coldness was at a new icy temperature. Thurandír sometimes wondered how he could find such a distant woman so beautiful. Because of her half-Elven roots, Gailrin was exceptionally tall and fair – two features which added to her generally emotionless disposition.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, the smile dropping from his lips.

"You know it is," Gailrin said softly, stepping into the room. Her feet made no sound on the floorboards, and she gently lowered herself into the wooden rocking chair in the corner. Her silver skirts pooled around her ankles, and she pulled her dark curls over her shoulder gracefully. "It is time for you and I to talk about leaving these parts."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Thurandír muttered, pushing a hand through his wavy hair. "Not this again."

"Avoid the matter as much as you desire," she said evenly. "It will not change the reality of our situation."

"The reality?" Thurandír echoed. "And I suppose you have developed the gift of foresight!"

"It has naught to do with foresight or special gifts, Thurandír," Gailrin replied, arching a dark eyebrow. "I can see what is happening to our town, because it is happening right now. It has been happening for months. Times are changing. The air is growing colder. I do not feel safe here anymore. Don't you want your wife to be safe? And your children?"

Thurandír was quiet. Gailrin pressed on, sensing his weakness.

"You have even said yourself that you are having trouble with trades as of late. I am just trying to do the best for our family. My eyes are simply open, my love. When will you realize that yours are not?"

"Have you been sharing words with our son?" Thurandír finally asked, standing. "I feel as though I just had this exact conversation with Faeldor."

"Does it trouble you that we are all in agreement?"

"What troubles me is that you have no faith."

They stared at one another for a long moment, eyes locked in a war of opinions. Thurandír held his head high, clinging to his pride like a man hanging from a cliff. Gailrin did not remove the stern haze from her dark eyes. Finally, Thurandír broke the stare.

"We are not leaving. That is the final decision."

With that, he stormed from the room, shutting the door behind him loudly for emphasis. Gailrin remained seated, gazing after him as though she could still see his retreating back, his heavy strides.

"I'm afraid it is not your decision alone," she said to the empty room.

* * *

Faeldor listened to his father's angry footsteps as he marched down the hall. From his position in his bedroom, he could not help but overhear the conversation between his parents. The solemn tone of his mother's voice was a strong confirmation for his fears. Gondor was falling.

He turned to his window, gazing out at the large hill, the shore, the river. The scenery was the same as it had always been, but something about the picture appeared different to Faeldor. The waters that once appeared friendly now seemed ominous. When he was a child, the breeze sung songs to him. Now it whispered threats.

Faeldor clenched his hand in a fist. He knew his mother was right. They needed to leave, and leave quickly. But he could not shake the growing fury in his heart. It was a certain kind of anger – one that empowered him, and frightened him. It was the kind of anger that a man could only feel when confronted with the realization that he must leave the one place he'd ever called home.

* * *

Pelilas took a small bite of the sandwich that Coruwen made. The bread was a touch too hard, and the meat tasted old. He chewed thoughtfully, reluctantly meeting her gaze.

"Delicious," he lied, forcing a smile.

"I hoped you would think so," Coruwen replied, smiling back at him.

The two were seated on a large rock near the bay. Coruwen had brought a basket full of sandwiches, crackers, and tea. Their picnics were a ritual established long ago, when they were children. Faeldor used to join them from time to time. Whenever he came, he would bring bowls of soup made with fish that he'd caught earlier. Faeldor's soup was always much tastier than Coruwen's sandwiches.

But somewhere during that slow purgatorial era between childhood and adulthood, Coruwen and Pelilas grew to become more than just friends. It was as though it happened overnight. One moment, they were playing together on the shore, giving one another chase, and the next, they were exchanging stolen kisses underneath the stars. Faeldor, although still close to Pelilas, stopped coming to the picnics. And so, a tradition built for three transformed into a custom for two.

"Who were those men?" Coruwen asked. "The ones on the boat, before I came down to the shore?"

"Rangers," Pelilas answered, taking a long sip of tea. "They were heading up the Anduin."

"A death sentence," she said, biting into a sandwich.

"What did you just say?" he snapped. Coruwen raised wide green eyes to him, startled at his tone. Pelilas quickly softened his voice. "Why did you say that?"

"It's something that my brother says," she answered, biting her lip. She realized that she was digging a bigger hole for herself with every added breath. "Faeldor is always ranting and raving lately about how traveling the Anduin is suicide." Coruwen winced visibly; she knew the gravity of her words.

"Thank you," Pelilas said bitterly, dropping the sandwich to the ground. "I am not hungry anymore."

"Pelilas, please," Coruwen said, touching his arm gently. "I did not mean--"

"Then try saying what you mean," he replied harshly, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

There was a small silence, and Coruwen glanced down at her hands. Pelilas sighed loudly.

"Forgive me," he said, "I should not grow cross with you. And you should not have to tread daintily around such matters. I am fully aware of the dangers my father faces every time he sails up the River. I am fully aware that he is most likely gone forever."

"No," Coruwen said, shaking her head emphatically. "You cannot think like that, Pelilas! You have to believe that he will come back."

"What is the use?" Pelilas asked. "To raise up my hopes so high that they have an even further distance to fall when the truth sets in?"

Coruwen let out a small laugh, rolling her eyes. "You and my brother should get together and exchange your shadowed thoughts. You would have a grand time!"

"Faeldor is a smart boy," he said with a shrug.

"It cannot be as bad as you both say it is," Coruwen mused aloud, looking skyward.

"What makes you think so?"

Coruwen turned her gaze to him, raising an eyebrow mischievously. She lifted a hand to his face, running her fingertips over his freckle-laced cheekbones.

"I have no reason to fear whatever evil lies up the Anduin," she said softly. "Not when I have you."

Pelilas smiled in response. He moved closer, reaching up to touch her thick dark hair, tangling his fingers in the mass of curls and braids. He leaned in to kiss her, but stopped halfway when a flash of red caught his eye. Pelilas's gaze darted to the left, over Coruwen's shoulder.

There was a man, he realized, crouched down in the bushes. As he locked eyes with him, Pelilas felt an icy fear spread out through his lungs. He looked like no other man Pelilas had ever seen before. He seemed to be wearing many layers of red clothing, and his gold jewelry sparkled in the sunlight. His face was mostly hidden by a dark hood, but Pelilas could catch a glimpse of his dark skin spliced with bright paint. His eyes, he noticed, were as hard as stones.

In a flash, the man was gone. He took off, crashing through the trees, and Pelilas was jolted back to life.

"Are you all right?" Coruwen asked, her eyes searching his.

"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, shaking his head as if to remove the image of this man. "Fine. Perfect." Pelilas smiled to emphasize his point. "My mind just…went somewhere else."

"Well keep it here," Coruwen laughed.

"My mind, you mean?"

"Well, at least your lips," she replied with a grin.

Pelilas laughed heartily before settling his mouth firmly over hers. Coruwen returned the kiss energetically, pressing a warm hand to the back of his neck. But try as he might, Pelilas just could not let himself get lost in the moment. Behind his closed eyelids, he was haunted with images of this mysterious man in the bushes. As he continued to replay these pictures over and over, his fear gave way to curiosity. Perhaps even intrigue. And this scared Pelilas further.

* * *

A/N: Evil, evil, evil. Oh, it's coming.


	4. Destiny is an Oliphaunt

A/N: WOW so many reviews! Haha.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I know that Faramir sees Boromir's funeral boat on February 29, 3019. And since this chapter is taking place on March 1, 3019, this is the point where I say: I'm tweak-a-leaking! He'll see it at some point. No bitching, I say.

Anyway, Tolkien's characters are not mine, no they are not! But apparently, Boromir is raiding Lily's refrigerator. Interesting.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Destiny is an Oliphaunt**

Faramir sat alone at the front of the small boat, lost in thought. Anborn, Mablung, and Damrod were in the back, talking quietly, their voices serving as backdrop for Faramir's musings. He lowered a hand over the side of the boat, feeling the cool water of the Great River against his fingers. The waves were eerily silent, and Faramir felt jumpy, afraid of the very air which surrounded him.

As the boat continued smoothly along the Anduin, Faramir couldn't help but wish that his brother Boromir was at his side. His older brother had left for Rivendell some time ago, after they'd had an identical dream regarding the infamous Shards of Narsil. Both Faramir and Boromir felt connected to the legend that surrounded the powerful blade of Isildur, and the dream shook the brothers equally. Faramir had wanted to go to Rivendell as well, but Boromir chose the task for his own. "It is dangerous," he had explained. "You should not have to suffer such travels. Stay in Gondor. Fight. Defend. Do it for me. And for our people."

It was easy for him to say, Faramir thought bitterly. Though they'd both been witnesses of Mordor's destruction, Boromir was now getting a chance to escape. The glorious waterfalls and rocky hills of Rivendell awaited him, and Faramir was left to battle the growing shadow. He could not help but be a tiny bit jealous.

However, the past few days at sea had given Faramir the chance to ponder the entire situation. The gentle motions of the water had eased his anger and envy. He began to feel a strong responsibility for the other Rangers; he knew that he had to look out for their safety and happiness. Faramir was slowly coming to the realization that his destiny lay with Gondor. The shards of Narsil and Rivendell was Boromir's story. He would find his own.

Faramir was awoken from his daydreams when he realized that Anborn was standing beside him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain," Anborn said, "but Damrod thought he saw an oliphaunt in the distance. He said I should alert you immediately."

"An oliphaunt?" Faramir echoed, sounding alarmed. "That would mean that there are Southrons nearby. You should sit with me; we will keep watch up here. Damrod and Mablung can look after the rear."

Anborn nodded, sitting on the edge of the boat beside Faramir. They were quiet for a few moments until Faramir broke the silence.

"You are thinking of that red-haired boy, are you not?"

"I pity him," Anborn replied. "His father was a friend of mine. Pelilas said that he sailed up the Anduin for Northern Gondor six months ago. He has not yet returned."

Faramir whistled through his teeth – a long drawn-out sigh of sympathy.

"What do you supposed happened to him?" Anborn asked, sounding as though he already had an answer.

Faramir shrugged.

"There are many dreadful things that can happen to a man in these parts," he answered. "Captured, tortured, murdered. There are no pleasant choices. That young boy's father is most likely gone for good."

Anborn opened his mouth to respond but before he could speak, he was interrupted by a cry from the back of the boat.

"Faramir! Anborn!" Damrod was shouting. "Men of the South! On the Eastern Shore!"

Faramir leapt to his feet, his hands immediately flying to the bow at his back. Anborn jumped up as well, and they were quickly joined by Mablung and Damrod.

"Where are the others?" Mablung asked, glancing about at the empty waters.

"They are too far ahead!" cried Damrod. "We never should have stopped!"

"Quiet," Faramir instructed, holding up a hand. He turned his eyes to the land, noting the men cloaked in red darting in and out of sight.

"So it begins," Faramir murmured. He turned to his companions, staring at each man in turn. "Come. Let us show these wicked servants of Sauron that the Rangers of Ithilien are not a force to be reckoned with."

* * *

Faeldor almost collided with his sister as she sailed through the front door, looking starry eyed.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked, giving her a curious glance.

"Oh, I just had a splendid lunch with Pelilas!" Coruwen replied, grinning widely. "Faeldor, I know that it makes you uncomfortable when I speak of him--"

"Only because you often tell me things that no brother wishes to hear from his sister!" he exclaimed with a good-natured laugh.

"—but I am just so happy!" Coruwen continued, ignoring his interjection. "I think I am in love with him."

Faeldor raised his eyebrows. He knew that Coruwen and Pelilas had become romantic with one another, but he was not aware that it had grown so serious.

"What?" Coruwen asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "What is that face for?"

Faeldor shook his dark bangs out of his eyes, regarding her closely. He wanted desperately to lecture her on the dangers of love, to warn her against falling too quickly and too hard. Such advice would surely result in an argument; Coruwen hated to be spoken to like a child. But Faeldor could not help his immediate urge to protect his sister. As her older brother, he felt that it was his duty.

"I just hope you are careful," was all he said. "But I am glad for you. You deserve that kind of happiness."

Coruwen grinned.

"Well, thank you. It pleases me to hear you say that."

"And if he ever breaks your heart," Faeldor continued, a mischievous gleam in his eye, "come tell me, and I will give him a good thrashing."

"But he is your friend!" she protested with a smile.

"Aye," he agreed. "And you are my sister."

* * *

Faramir pulled his hood up, holding his bow close to his chest. He stepped softly on the ground, his companions not very far behind him.

"Keep your eyes open," he instructed softly.

"What if there are too many?" Damrod worried aloud.

"And too few of us," Mablung added in a quiet but solemn voice.

"We are foolish to venture into battle without the others," Damrod said. "Faramir, I think we should turn back."

"If Captain Faramir wishes us to fight, then we must fight!" Anborn interjected, his voice raising. Mablung whirled on him.

"Quiet, you!" he spat. "It is your fault that we got behind!"

"Silence!" Faramir barked.

As if to illustrate his point, a red-tipped arrow flew through the trees, buzzing right past Faramir's head. It landed deep in the wood of a nearby log, its crimson feathers trembling. The Rangers dropped to the ground, taking cover behind a bush.

"We are in the middle of a battle," Faramir hissed. "Save your vapid chatter for another time, because right now, I need you to fight!"

Faramir jumped to his feet without giving the Rangers a chance to respond, and launched an arrow in the direction of his attacker. There was a crisp piercing sound, followed by a crash, and the flurry of footsteps. Faramir glanced back down at Damrod, Mablung, and Anborn.

"Come on," he encouraged. "It is time."

Together, the four men trampled through the trees, ready to strike out with their weapons at any moment. They were soon met by a small cluster of Southrons – one of which was atop an oliphaunt. The Rangers skidded to a halt.

Faramir drew his sword, dodging to avoid arrows from the oliphaunt rider. He pivoted on his heel, swinging out and beheading one of the wicked men smoothly. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as the severed head, with its painted nose and cheeks, landed on his boot. Kicking it out of sight, he spun around, plunging his sword into another man's chest.

"There are more!" Damrod yelled. "More coming!"

"Hold your ground!" Faramir instructed. "And watch out for that oliph--" He was cut off as a Southron leapt onto his back, clutching his throat with dark gloved hands. Faramir let out a choked cry of surprise, and weakly swiped at the man's hands with his sword. He gasped for air, stumbling forward, and unsuccessfully attempted to throw the man over his shoulders. Suddenly, he felt a surge of pressure at his spine, and the man loosened his grip, sliding to the ground. An arrow was lodged in the back of his neck. Faramir turned, smiling gratefully at Anborn.

Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir saw the Southron atop the oliphaunt draw back his arm. His bow, Faramir realized, was aimed at Anborn.

"Look out!" he shouted as the arrow sailed through the air. Anborn turned, but not soon enough. The arrow burrowed in his left arm, and he fell to the ground in pain. Mablung, who was the nearest to him, knelt down at his side immediately.

A blaze of fury coursed through Faramir's veins, and he turned his eyes to the huge oliphaunt and its rider. The man was smiling eerily, and he reached for his bow again.

"Not this time," Faramir murmured, grabbing his own bow. He aimed carefully, lining up the tip of the arrow with one of the oliphaunt's eyes. He let go of the string, sending the arrow soaring upwards.

It was, of course, a perfect shot.

The oliphaunt let out an ear-splitting howl, drawing all attention its way. Faramir ducked behind a nearby tree for cover. He watched the gigantic creature as it staggered, and then fell to its knees. Its rider leapt to the ground, barely even showing any sort of reaction.

Suddenly, a deep male voice cut through the air.

"Aradhel! Aradhel!"

The oliphaunt rider turned at the sound of his name being called. Faramir's hand stilled over his bow.

"We are outnumbered. Look."

Aradhel glanced up, past Faramir's hiding spot.

"Pull back. Tell the others," he instructed, his voice gruff.

Faramir glanced back towards the water and his heart warmed at what he saw. Lined up along the shore were several more of the small ships. The other Rangers of Ithilien had come to their aid.

He turned his gaze back to Aradhel, who was rounding up his troops, telling them to retreat. Faramir narrowed his eyes, feeling a growing hatred for this man. He stared at him for a long while, as if to memorize his long dark hair, painted face, and wide shoulders. He would not easily forget this evil man who injured his friend.

This battle with the men of Harad was over, Faramir thought. But there would most certainly be others. He knew that one day, he would cross paths with Aradhel again. Faramir began to suspect that Aradhel would have some important part to play in his story – the story that kept him from traveling to Rivendell. There was a reason that he was meant to stay in Gondor.

Faramir looked over at his companions, ready to assist his company. He sheathed his sword with the vigor of a man who had just accepted his own destiny, and then he began to walk towards his friends.

* * *

A/N: If Legolas were to show up in this story for five seconds, strip naked, and do an Irish jig, would that make people leave reviews? Seriously, I'll consider it. 


	5. Dark Laughter

A/N: I'm addicted to this story. Quick, get me a 12-step program.

In response to my three new reviews:

-Lily: Gosh, that Boromir sure has a big appetite! You should have put an arrow through his chest or something. Stealing ale and turkey is one thing…but your last chocolate cupcake! That's murder territory. Anyway, I'm glad you like the story.

-Uberdawg: Why thank you! I'm glad you are enjoying it. Hope you like this chapter as well!

-Arahiril: Merci beaucoup! Don't worry, I fully intend on writing until I reach a conclusion, regardless of how many reviews I receive. I'm in love with this idea, and every time I finish a chapter, I immediately begin to brainstorm ideas for the next one. I'm happy you like it!

My disclaimer is cooking me dinner right now, but it wanted me to relay the message: Tolkien's characters are STILL not mine. Wow. Who knew?

* * *

**Chapter Five: Dark Laughter**

The sun hung low in the sky, outlining the leaves of the trees in a brilliant red-orange. Pelilas sat alone on a large rock, long after Coruwen had gone inside. He squinted into the bright copper light, enjoying the burning sensation on his eyelids. He found that if he opened and closed his eyes rapidly, the neon lights danced, creating a beautiful display of fireworks above the water. Perhaps it was foolish, and a waste of one's time, but concentrating on imaginary colors seemed better than dwelling on the disappearance of his father. Colors, Pelilas reasoned, could not hurt him.

There was, of course, one shade that could.

Pelilas jumped at the sound of a twig snapping close by. He turned quickly. The man in red was back, hiding behind a nearby tree. Pelilas's first instinct was to run, for something told him that this man was not a friend. But his legs would not react.

Slowly, Pelilas rose to his feet. He brushed the dirt from his pants, and pushed his red bangs to the side of his forehead. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk towards the man. With every step he took, his heart pounded further.

"You!" Pelilas called, uncertain of where this bout of courage was coming from. "Show yourself!"

But nothing, not even his false confidence, could prepare him for the sight of this man. As he stepped out from behind the tree, Pelilas stopped in his tracks. The man slowly approached him, his steps long and deliberate. He walked like a man who knew he was in control.

"Who are you?" Pelilas asked, his voice losing its steadiness.

The man did not respond. He continued to walk towards Pelilas, his lips twisted in an odd half-grin. His face was painted elaborately; a thick black line ran from his forehead to the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were surrounded in white triangles. His protruding cheekbones were emphasized by painted leaves, and ebony paint dripped from the corners of his mouth like wicked fangs.

"I think," the man said in a deep voice, "that is the question I should be asking you."

Pelilas raised his chin, swallowing thickly as he eyed the sword at the man's side.

"My name is Pelilas," he replied. "I live in the house on top of the hill. My father is called Captain Nemír, and I am to be--"

The man laughed. Pelilas blinked in surprise. He did not know that men who looked as evil as this one possessed the ability to emit sounds of happiness or joy.

"I wanted your name," he said, "not your history."

"Oh." Pelilas wrinkled his brow and glanced at the man's sword again. "And what is your name?"

"I am called Gwarth," he answered, and his painted lips parted to reveal a line of shimmering white teeth. "I dwell in the south."

"The south?" Pelilas echoed.

"From the land of Harad."

Pelilas's sapphire eyes widened, and he stumbled backwards. He had heard stories of the Men of Harad – terrible and frightening stories that could shake any grown man to the core. His father had told him about the legendary Southrons, about how they marched along Harad Road to Mordor, where they would willingly do the Dark Lord's bidding.

"Why do you look at me with those eyes?" Gwarth asked, stepping towards him.

"Stay back!" Pelilas cried. "Do not come any closer!"

"Or what? I see you are not armed. Unless you have a dagger hidden in a place I cannot see."

"Please," he said softly. "I mean you no harm. But you frighten me."

Gwarth's eyebrows, barely noticeable underneath his face paint, raised slightly. He held up both hands and took a small step back.

"There," he said. "Now, do tell me. Where is your father?"

Pelilas regarded him closely, and he hesitated before answering.

"I do not know," he sighed.

"Ah," Gwarth said, crossing thick arms in front of his chest. "Do not tell me that he is one of the unfortunate seamen who left for northern Gondor several months ago?"

Pelilas's gaze snapped up to meet his.

"You know of their travels?" he asked, his pulse quickening.

"Of course," Gwarth replied. "It is one of the many reasons why I despise Gondor."

The hairs on the back of Pelilas's neck stood on end, and his mouth felt dry as sand. Yet, he could not stop himself from asking questions. It was as though his voice had a will of its own.

"You…despise Gondor?"

"Incredibly," Gwarth said, glancing out at the water. "I would think you should as well."

"Me?" Pelilas asked, giving him an incredulous glance. "Why should I hate Gondor?"

"What other reason would your father have for traveling the Anduin if not for Gondor's sake?" Gwarth watched Pelilas's reaction to this out of the corner of his eye.

"It is his duty," he said softly, sounding unconvinced.

"Let me be the first to tell you, young Pelilas, the powerful men stationed in Minas Tirith do not care about men like your father. While the seamen may be loyal to Gondor, I must ask you; is Gondor loyal to them? What has Gondor ever done for you?"

Pelilas did not answer. He gave Gwarth a long hard stare, and then turned, walking up the hill.

"Ask yourself then!" Gwarth called after him. "I do not doubt our paths will cross again soon." He laughed, and the sound floated up towards Pelilas's retreating back. As he marched up the grassy hill towards his house, he decided that the sound of Gwarth's laughter was not a pleasant one at all.

* * *

Gwarth stared after Pelilas for a few moments, combating the urge to simply shoot him in the back with an arrow. His boyish ignorance angered him, but he reminded himself to be patient.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew his eyes away from the boy, and back towards the trees. Aradhel, the Chieftain, and his companion, was headed his way.

"Fool," he snarled, his gold earrings glistening in the setting sun. "Were you conversing with that boy?"

"Indeed I was," Gwarth responded.

"Why, I ask, did you not kill him immediately?" Aradhel's dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"I have a better idea," he said with a grin.

Aradhel let out a low angry sound, whirling on him. "You, minion, are not in charge." He reached for his bow, quickly grabbing an arrow from the quiver on his back. Gwarth placed a hand over his arm, stilling him.

"Listen to me for a moment," he said. "Just listen."

Aradhel said nothing, but he lowered his weapon, giving Gwarth motivation to press on.

"I am not attempting to tell you how to run your army," he said. "But this town is small. We can break it in half with a simple flick of a wrist."

"So what are we waiting for?" Aradhel asked, grabbing his bow again. Once more, Gwarth stopped him.

"The question is," he continued, "do we break it with force, or with wit?"

Aradhel slowly turned his ebony eyes to Gwarth, regarding him closely.

"Think about it, my friend," Gwarth said, cocking an eyebrow. "That boy's heart is weak. I can twist his soul any way I please; he will be wearing a red cloak and painting his face faster than you can blink."

"What do I want with a boy?" Aradhel sneered. "He is no fighter. He will be slain in minutes."

"The boy is not the prize," he said mysteriously. Gwarth pointed towards a small house on top of the hill. Aradhel turned his gaze to follow Gwarth's finger, his eyes falling upon a light-haired man smoking a pipe and polishing his boots.

"Who is that?" Aradhel growled.

"He is a fisherman," Gwarth said, "and he controls much of the trade with Gondor. Look around, Aradhel. Look at the shore, the boats, the possibilities. If we tread carefully, we can gain the alliance of this town. Their power will become our power. The outcome will be greater than if we simply destroy all life in sight. Trust me, as you once did when we were young. Have I led you astray yet?"

Aradhel sighed, returning the arrow to its quiver.

"Very well then," Aradhel said. "Tell me of your plan."

* * *

A/N: Mua ha, cliffhanger. By the way, I was really tempted to have Gwarth whip out a business card and hand it to Pelilas. "If you ever feel like turning evil, call 1-800-ORCS-OWN". Haha, I amuse myself. 


	6. A Treacherous Handshake

A/N: I am on a roll. With lettuce, tomato, chicken, and mustard.

To my new reviewer….

-Angelchick007: Yesssss! I am thrilled to see one of my old readers again. The review you left made me smile; you have no idea how much it means to me to hear about the excitement people feel over my stories. I also re-read The Cold Touch of Rain a lot, hoping that I'd someday get inspired to write a new fic. I'm glad you like this one. I think it's pretty nifty as well. Thanks for your comments!

So, I was all set to write my disclaimer about how none of Tolkien's characters are mine, which I know may come as a surprise to everyone, but then I saw a baby oliphaunt eating leaves in my backyard. Weird.

* * *

**Chapter Six: A Treacherous Handshake**

"Something smells wonderful!" Gailrin said, descending the stairs and entering the kitchen.

"I am preparing dinner," Coruwen responded. "Faeldor said that I can cook his fish. We will be having stew!"

"What?" her mother asked, surprised. "Where is your brother?"

"Right here," Faeldor said, appearing in the doorway. "What is it, Mother?"

"Did you ask your father if it was all right to cook the fish?" Gailrin asked sternly. Coruwen glanced up, regarding the exchange quietly.

"No," Faeldor answered casually, sounding quite unconcerned. He flopped down in a chair, putting his feet up on the kitchen table.

"Faeldor!" Gailrin scolded. "Your father will be furious when he hears of this! According to him, this was the biggest fish that either one of you has ever caught! Surely he would want to sell such a prize to northern Gondor!"

"Oh?" Faeldor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "With what boat, Mother?"

"Do not take that tone with me."

"Please," he groaned, rolling his eyes skyward, "I overheard your conversation with Father. I know what you think of this matter. I know you wish us to leave home."

"What?" Coruwen interjected. "Leave home? Mother, what is he talking about?"

"Nothing," Gailrin answered, her eyes never leaving her son. "You are not to speak of this in front of your sister," she instructed him in a soft voice.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Faeldor muttered. "She, too, knows of the current dangers. You and Father think you can hide anything from us!"

"That is quite enough, Faeldor," Gailrin snapped. "I do not want to hear another word about this from either of you, especially once your father comes inside. Have I made myself clear?"

Coruwen and Faeldor exchanged a look that was impossible to decipher. Gailrin sighed in annoyance.

"Have I made myself clear?" she asked again, her voice louder.

"Yes, Mother," Faeldor answered. Coruwen nodded her agreement.

"Very well then. I shall retire to my bedroom until supper. Try to stay out of trouble." Gailrin disappeared from the room without so much as a glance to either of them. Coruwen continued to stir her stew thoughtfully, while Faeldor drummed his fingers on the table in a rhythm of frustration and anger.

* * *

Aradhel carefully walked up the hill towards the fisherman. His gloved fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, and he half-heartedly considered stabbing the man quickly, abandoning Gwarth's plan. But he knew, deep down, that his friend might have struck upon something genius.

The debate between power of the sword and power of the mind was an argument that Aradhel and Gwarth had been having since they were boys. Aradhel remembered one day in particular when he had attempted to ride an oliphaunt for the very first time. The giant creature was extremely resistant, and refused to respond to any of his commands, not even when Aradhel whipped him squarely across the back. Gwarth had shown him his technique for gaining an oliphaunt's trust and respect. He would tease the animal, luring him with the temptation of food. Gwarth used to play with the baby oliphaunts that frolicked under the misty waterfalls by the River Harnen. As his mûmakil friends grew bigger, they would allow Gwarth to ride on their backs. They listened to him, obeyed him. Aradhel always admired Gwarth's patience and attempted to emulate his successful behavior.

In the end, it was Aradhel's sharp skill as a warrior and his ruthless violence that earned him the title of Chieftain of the Haradrim. Gwarth's cunning personality and devious ways gave him the job as Aradhel's advisor, and second-in-command. The two men fought constantly, but it was their long-lasting friendship and joint history that kept them from drawing swords on one another. Somewhere beneath their rough exteriors, they shared a deep brotherly love that would continue to be the underlying backbone to their friendship until the end of their days.

Their bond was the reason why Aradhel allowed Gwarth to convince him to wash away his face paint and remove his red cloak, only moments ago. He had caught a glimpse of his naked face in the water's reflection and felt startled. It had been so long since he had seen himself without the bright colors on his nose and cheeks; he had almost forgotten what he really looked like. He had glanced up at Gwarth for reassurance, and his friend simply nodded.

But now, as he continued up the hill, Aradhel wrestled with contrasting feelings of confidence and doubt. He could not deny that the warrior in him ridiculed this silly plan. He knew that he could destroy this town without exerting any energy – he could murder every family with his eyes closed.

But as Aradhel's hand brushed the hilt of his sword again, a flash of memory flickered in front of his eyes like a lightning bolt against the evening sky. He had a vision of Gwarth as a boy, surrounded by baby oliphaunts during a rain shower. He could also see himself standing off to the side, his whip hanging from his hand loosely. Aradhel nodded to himself, his hand sliding from his sword. He would let Gwarth write this story. At least for now.

* * *

Thurandír inhaled the last smoky breath of his pipe and turned, prepared to go inside for dinner. He stopped short upon seeing a strange man making his way up the hill. Thurandír furrowed his brow – this man looked vaguely familiar, as though he'd stepped out of an old drawing or book, but he could not put his finger on who he might be. The man was tall, with long tangled ebony hair, and dark skin. He wore a few gold earrings, and bore a long sword at his side.

"Pardon me," the man called, "but are you the master fisherman of these parts?"

"Yes," Thurandír answered, his curiosity piqued. "And who, pray tell, are you?"

"My name is Aradhel," he said, coming to a halt before him. "I am a seaman myself. I dwell in a small village on the shores of the River Harnen."

"The River Harnen?" Thurandír echoed, alarmed. "Do you mean to tell me that you live in the land of Harad?"

"My village lies on the outskirts of Far Harad," Aradhel answered smoothly. "That realm has been mostly deserted for months. It is in the land of Near Harad that the wicked men dwell. Though I do not dare to speak of them."

"I see," Thurandír agreed, thinking of the legendary Southrons, with their painted faces and red attire. He had never seen one up close of course, but had heard enough frightening tales to give him fear of ever meeting one of Sauron's wicked servants. "And what are you doing here?" he asked curiously.

"My people are struggling," Aradhel said, turning wide desperate eyes to him. "Not too long ago, we had a prosperous trading deal with the men of Khand. But trades have been scarce as of late. Ever since the dark shadow returned to the east, our attempts to maintain the glory of our town have failed. The people of Khand have either fled into the west or have succumbed to the spreading evil. I worry about the fate of my village."

Thurandír nodded, understanding this man's troubles, for they were the same as his own.

"Then I heard of your town," Aradhel continued. "I heard stories of a wondrous fisherman, and a sea captain. I knew I had to visit Ethir Anduin immediately. Your trades with northern Gondor, how do they fare?"

"Not well, I am afraid," Thurandír responded. He quickly filled Aradhel in on his own problems, including the disappearance of Nemír.

"It is as I expected then," Aradhel said gravely. "Do you ever think about leaving these shores?"

Thurandír sighed, looking at his small house, the familiar waters. He could not imagine living anywhere else.

"My wife wishes to leave," he admitted, surprise at the ease with which he spoke to this complete stranger. "I would want to stay. This is my home. I could never feel as happy as I do here."

"Then I must offer you a proposition," Aradhel said, taking a step closer. "Let us help one another. Let us not allow our villages to become swallowed by the eastern shadow."

"You want us to make a trading deal?" Thurandír questioned. "I suppose that sounds like a wise suggestion."

"Not just wise. I think it is imperative," Aradhel stated firmly. "Gondor has abandoned you; Khand has failed me. What other choice do we have?"

Thurandír considered his offer. Aradhel's words made perfect sense, and yet, there was the faint sound of warning bells ringing in his ears. Something wasn't right about this.

He glanced at Aradhel out of the corner of his eye, at his eager and hopeful gaze. Thurandír smiled in spite of himself – he was being quite foolish, he realized. This was a wonderful opportunity – the kind that did not come along very often.

Ignoring the nagging feeling inside his mind, Thurandír extended his hand.

"Very well then," he said. "Let us meet by the shore tomorrow morning to begin our trade."

Aradhel shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you," he said warmly. "You are truly a kind man."

Thurandír grinned.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. My family is expecting me for dinner."

"Of course," Aradhel said. "I shall see you tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," Thurandír echoed, disappearing behind his front door. Once inside his house, he paused in the hallway. The exchange with Aradhel replayed itself in his mind, and try as he might, he could not shake the sensation that he had just done something terribly wrong. No matter how much he reasoned with himself, Thurandír was slightly convinced that somehow, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

* * *

Aradhel made his way down the hill steadily. The conversation with Thurandír had gone exactly as Gwarth said it would. He was right, he realized, in trusting him.

But that came as no surprise to Aradhel. What truly shocked him was that for the first time in his life, he truly enjoyed traveling down the road of cunning deceit. And on that day by the water, Aradhel learned that the clear sense of victory he acquired through mastery of the sword could also be obtained by simply spinning a dark web of lies.

* * *

A/N: These men of Harad are kind of sexy. Who's with me? 


	7. Just Like An Orc

A/N: First things first:

-Angelchick007: I'm so glad that I've inspired you! You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that! (And I'm glad you agree about those Haradrim…makes me feel a little less crazy. But they are pretty damn hot.)

-Ian: Why thank you, kind sir.

-Sarahbarr17: Ah yes…sneaky Southrons. You know how they roll…down in the land of Harad. Haha. Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying these!

As for my disclaimer, Tolkien's characters still don't really belong to me. But the baby oliphaunt in my yard is pretty damn cute. However, there seems to be a loaf of bread missing from my pantry, and a pint of ale missing from my fridge. I am wondering if there's a hobbit in my house. This curious situation is making my disclaimers seem less and less credible.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Just Like an Orc**

Faramir lay on the hard wooden planks of his boat. Putting his hands behind his head, he sighed loudly, gazing up at the evening sky. Anborn was resting quietly as well, not too far away. Damrod had helped Faramir remove the arrow from Anborn's upper arm, and together, they'd patched up the wound neatly. Anborn had been brave through the entire ordeal – he did not utter a sound – not even when the jagged tip was wrenched from his skin and fresh blood began to pour steadily down his arm, staining his sleeve.

Now, about an hour later, Anborn lay still, his arm thickly bandaged. Damrod and Mablung were steering the boat while also keeping watch, giving Faramir a chance to rest and regain his strength.

His eyes fluttered shut, and the soft gentle motions of the waves easily lulled him to sleep. His head rolled slightly to the side, and his arms went limp, hands opening loosely, palms up, waiting to receive his dreams.

In another world, or perhaps a different version of the world he already knew, Faramir struggled with a thick fog. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to see, and swiped at the hovering mist with a gloved hand. Tripping over his own feet, he ran forward, although he could not see very far ahead.

As he reached a rocky riverbank, the mist suddenly gave way to a feather-light rain shower, and he halted, kicking up pebbles behind him.

"By the Valar," he murmured, stunned.

He could see a small boat making its way down the river. The boat carried only one passenger – a sleeping man, lying his back, eyes closed. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, and a proud sword lay dormant at his side. Faramir noticed that his shirt was darkened with bloodstains, and began to realize that this man was not sleeping at all.

The boat drew nearer, slightly veering off-course due to the hand of the wind. Faramir's heart practically stopped beating as he caught a glimpse of the man's face.

"Boromir," he whispered, his voice heavy with dread.

Faramir squeezed his eyelids shut, desperately hoping that his eyes were deceiving him – that this was merely some other brown-haired man who simply looked like Boromir. But when he looked at the boat again, the despair in his heart was strong enough to tell him with absolute certainty that it was, indeed, his brother.

His eyes remained transfixed upon the boat as a thousand memories shimmered in the waters around him. But ripples in the river's surface distorted the images until Faramir was left with only his own reflection. He reached out to touch the boat as it passed by, but his fingers fell a few inches short of the wooden side. He tried a few more times, and each time, the boat remained just far enough of out his grasp.

Faramir never took his gaze off of the boat. He watched it faithfully as it continued down the river, swaying gently with the wind. It was only after the boat disappeared from sight that Faramir noticed that he had tears rolling down his cheeks, steady as the rain around him.

"Faramir!" A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. "Faramir, wake up!"

Faramir sat up with a start, looking around in confusion. Damrod was kneeling down beside him, his hands on his shoulders firmly.

"Wh…what?" he stammered, disoriented.

"You were crying out in your sleep," Damrod explained. His puzzled grey eyes searched Faramir's face. "Captain, you are crying."

Faramir raised his hands to his cheeks, which were slick with tears. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Damrod's. A long silence passed between the two men. It was a pause so powerful that it could hold an entire story in its grasp.

When Faramir finally spoke, his voice rang out clear, like a new morning. His words echoed in the evening air, inflicting pain again and again.

"Boromir," he said flatly, "is dead."

* * *

Pelilas sat by the small fire in his kitchen, watching the flames leap and dance. The heat rose up from the smoke, caressing his face, and he felt comforted by the sensation. But the fire was hypnotizing him, deceiving him. Hidden in the swells and curves of the orange flames, Pelilas was convinced that he could see the dark eyes of Gwarth.

No matter what he did, Pelilas just could not get his encounter with Gwarth out of his mind. The Southron's words repeated themselves over and over in his thoughts, until they were pressed into his brain as though they'd been branded there.

He began to think of northern Gondor, with its white flags and towers, and for the first time in his life, Pelilas felt an indescribable and immediate anger flicker in his heart and spread out through his lungs, into his bloodstream. He began to have instinctive visions of setting fire to those towers, that great city. As he stared into the flames in front of him, he imagined that very same blaze ripping through the ivory flags, turning beautiful trees into ash.

These visions of death and destruction sent a surge of electrical energy through Pelilas's veins, and his eyes widened. Was this how it happened? Was this how good men lost their graces? When he was a boy, he always believed that every evil creature was once at peace with the world; there was always an era before the shadow.

Pelilas leapt to his feet suddenly. He grabbed a full bucket of water from the counter and threw it over the fire, plunging the room into darkness. He stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the hissing sound of the smoke, feeling droplets of cold water against his feet.

Then, he ran for the door.

* * *

"This is delicious," Thurandír said, taking another bite of stew. "What is it?"

"Well," Coruwen began, "it is – ow!" She was interrupted as Faeldor kicked her swiftly in the knee underneath the table.

"Pardon?" Thurandír cupped a hand to his ear. "What did you say?"

"Just some scraps that were left over from the lunch I made for Pelilas," she answered, glaring at her brother. Gailrin looked back and forth between her children warily, but said nothing.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. Faeldor, who was closest, got up to answer it.

"Pelilas!" he exclaimed. "I did not know you were coming for dinner! And we were just talking about you."

"Good things?" Pelilas asked, offering a weak smile.

Faeldor glanced at him, confused. There was something odd about Pelilas's appearance, he realized. His friend's pale eyes were wide, pupils large as a cat's. His gaze was unfocused, and he seemed to be nervous, twisting his hands together in front of him.

"Of course," Faeldor answered slowly.

"Well, I am not here for dinner," Pelilas continued. "I was actually here to see Coruwen."

Faeldor turned to look over his shoulder at his sister. Coruwen jumped up from the table, dropping her napkin on her chair carelessly.

"Coruwen!" Gailrin called. "What about dinner?"

"It can wait," she sang out, grabbing Pelilas's hand. Faeldor watched nervously as his sister lead Pelilas up the stairs, giggling faintly.

"Something is not right here," he murmured under his breath.

"Did you say something, Faeldor?" Thurandír called from the kitchen.

Faeldor stared up the empty stairs, eyes narrowed.

"No," he replied. "Not a word."

* * *

Coruwen quietly closed her bedroom door and then spun on her heel, throwing her arms around Pelilas's neck.

"I love your surprise visits!" she exclaimed, kissing him emphatically.

Pelilas gently disentangled himself from her embrace, turning from her. Coruwen bit her lower lip, puzzled.

"Pelilas?" she asked gently. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, pushing a hand through his shaggy red bangs.

"You do not seem fine," Coruwen said, taking another step to him.

"Coruwen," Pelilas said weakly, still refusing to face her. "Do you ever wonder about your purpose?"

"My purpose?" she echoed. "I do not understand."

"And orcs," he continued. "Goblins. What of them? Do they have a purpose?"

"I suppose," Coruwen said, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

"Do you think their purpose is less important than ours? Yours, or mine? And what of lives? Are our lives more valuable than that of an orc's?"

"Pelilas, what are you saying?"

He finally turned around.

"Forget it," he said, mustering a fake smile. "Where were we?"

"I think," Coruwen said, grinning, "we were right…here." She slipped her arms about his slim waist, raising her lips to his. He took her by surprise, placing both of his palms on either side of her face, returning her kiss roughly. His teeth grazed her lower lip, and the stubble on his chin scratched her jaw carelessly.

"Pelilas," she laughed, pulling back slightly.

"What?" he asked, an unfamiliar flicker in his eyes. "Is this not what you pulled me upstairs for?"

"Yes, but if you--"

"Then we have absolutely nothing to talk about," Pelilas said, leaning in to kiss her again. His hands slid heavily from her hairline to her hips and then back again, tracing the curves of her body and pulling her closer to him. He grabbed hold of one of her wrists suddenly, encircling her delicate arm with his long fingers, and pulled her towards her small bed quite forcefully.

"Wait," she protested, but her voice was muffled as his lips pressed on hers again. Pelilas pinned her against the soft mattress, his hands holding her wrists above her head. His hips were heavy on hers, and she could feel his heart pounding as his chest rested against her own. Coruwen writhed violently beneath him and kicked out with her legs, her feet digging into the quilt.

"Pelilas," she managed to get out, her voice hoarse. "Just wait f--"

Coruwen finally managed to free one of her hands and she lashed out with her nails, scratching him clear across the face. He froze as though she'd stabbed him, and Coruwen took this opportunity to leap across the room. She stood still near the doorway and paused to catch her breath and adjust her dress. Pelilas turned to look at her, and Coruwen glanced at the four jagged crimson lines etched in his pale cheek.

"Coruwen," Pelilas said, eyes wide with terror. "I do not know what came over me, I--"

"Get out," she whispered, fighting back tears.

"But Coruwen, if you would only--"

"I said, GET OUT!"

Her voice rang in his ears, and she pointed a furious finger towards her door. Pelilas nodded slowly, and stood.

"Very well then."

Coruwen followed him with her eyes, her expression cold and unforgiving. Only when she heard his footsteps descending the stairs did she allow herself to cry.

* * *

A/N: What a shithead, that Pelilas. 


	8. How To Spell Loyalty

A/N: When I make a promise to finish a story, I truly mean it. Obviously I can't bang out chapters like I used to, but I'm still very much a dedicated writer in my heart. Therefore, this story will one day be completed, even if it takes me a ridiculously long time to do it. My muse catches up with me at the most random of times.

By the way, I probably would have been able to write a bunch more of this story during my winter break, except for the fact that I got suspended from back in January because a story I'd written entitled "Middle-earth Say What? Karaoke" contained a real person…David Holmes, who was an MTV VJ back when scrunchies were all the rage. Whoever reported it is seriously lame, and you have my eternal annoyance.

Anyway, my disclaimer is currently off playing golf with Mr. Holmes himself, who is thoroughly pissed off that his one-and-only appearance on disappeared (he was counting on a hardcore comeback!), but I'll have you know that Tolkien's characters still aren't mine. Except, of course, for that baby oliphaunt that was hanging around my house this past winter. Incidentally, he has grown rather large.

I hope you guys enjoy this one, and, as always, it is good to be back.

--

**Chapter Eight: How To Spell Loyalty**

Faeldor narrowed his eyes at the sound of shouting coming from the upstairs bedroom. He tapped his fork against his plate – a rhythm of suspicion – and listened as he heard a door slam shut, followed by the thunder rumble of heavy footsteps descending upon the staircase. He slid a quick glance to his parents – both Thurandír and Gailrin appeared completely oblivious.

"Excuse me," Faeldor muttered, pushing his chair back and quickly striding into the front hall. He met Pelilas just as he was reaching the bottom of the stairs. With one fluid motion, Faeldor quickly blocked his path.

"What is the rush?" Faeldor asked curiously, his eyes flickering over his friend's face, taking in his appearance. Wild, unfocused eyes, flushed cheeks, untamed hair – not to mention the four jagged scratches running down the side of his jaw.

"There is no rush," Pelilas countered, a bit too quickly for Faeldor's liking. "I just need to be getting home is all."

"What for?" Faeldor asked, unblinking.

"Supper," Pelilas answered almost immediately. He nodded over his shoulder towards the kitchen. "And yours is probably getting cold."

"Probably," Faeldor replied, unflinching. Without ever breaking his locked stare, Faeldor stepped to the side. He extended his arms in an over exaggerated fashion, mockingly gesturing: _Go ahead_. Pelilas warily stepped forward, casting a glance behind him. Faeldor leaned against the railing coolly, crossing his arms and lacing his ankles. He waited until Pelilas had opened the front door and was practically outside before asking, "Oh, by the by. What happened to your face, dear friend?"

Pelilas froze, his hand stilled upon the doorknob. Faeldor raised his eyebrows smugly.

"A nasty spat with a wild wolf," Pelilas explained without turning to look at him.

"Just now?" he questioned, feigning innocence. "You mean to tell me that there is a wolf in my house? Why didn't you speak of this before?"

"No, not _in_ your house. Don't be silly. It happened earlier this evening."

"Preposterous! You are being the silly one. You didn't have those markings when you first arrived, and I am guessing you didn't climb out the window, battle a wolf, and come back inside, so the only logical thing to think is that a wolf is in my home, which is a very serious matter indeed." Faeldor turned, cupping his mouth with both hands. "Father!" he called loudly. "Oh, Father! Could you bring me your hunting arrow? It seems that-"

"Oh, quiet!" Pelilas hissed, whirling around to face his friend. "Fine. You want to know the truth? The truth is that your sister is the one who nearly clawed my eye out. There. Are you happy now? Will that news appease you?"

The mocking grin had vanished from Faeldor's face; in place of his taunting smile, he now bore an angry scowl. He took a slow, deliberate step towards Pelilas, feeling pleased with the look of concern that flickered through his pale eyes.

"What reason would Coruwen have to strike you?" Faeldor asked, his voice suddenly very soft and serious.

"I do not know," Pelilas replied nervously. "Perhaps she has gone mad." Faeldor cocked an eyebrow at this.

"Or, perhaps you said or did something to upset her!" he argued, raising his voice slightly. Pelilas glanced to the stairs quickly, almost as if he expected Coruwen to materialize that instant and confirm her brother's accusations. "I heard the shouting," Faeldor continued. "Don't lie to me."

"Faeldor, I was just-"

"And furthermore," Faeldor added loudly, as if Pelilas hadn't even spoken. "Do not ever speak ill words about my family. I will not stand here and let you call my sister mad. If you ever so much as make her shed a single tear, I will-"

"What?" Pelilas taunted, suddenly snapping. "You will _what_? Please, enlighten me. What will Faeldor, the fisherman's son, do? Kill me? Is that what you were about to say? That you will come for me in the dead of night with your father's ropes and old rusting anchors?"

Faeldor was silent, but Pelilas could plainly see that he'd infuriated him. He softened his tone a touch; perhaps he'd been too harsh.

"Come now, Faeldor," he said gently, reversing his strategy. "Aren't we friends?" He extended a hand, a truce. But Faeldor shook his arm away.

"Friends perhaps," Faeldor said coldly. "But this is my family. Do not fool yourself into believing that you could ever be as important as them. I am, first and foremost, loyal to these people here in this household. I understand that loyalty is a foreign word to you, but perhaps if you stopped wasting your time by sitting on the shore and waiting for boats to come in, you would learn a thing or two."

Pelilas clenched his jaw so tightly that he feared it would break in half.

"Loyalty," he echoed bitterly. "I'll show you all about loyalty. Just you wait, Faeldor. I hope you enjoy your serene family dinner, your seaside adventures with Fisherman Father, because – and mark my words – everything is about to change."

Before Faeldor could ask any more questions or come up with a quick retort, Pelilas had pushed past him and fled the house. Faeldor was left with confusion, bewilderment, and a strange little feeling he would later recognize as dread.

--

Pelilas marched down the dirt path that lead from Faeldor's house to his own. His feet kicked up dust as he went, and his heart raced in time with his steps. Faeldor's words were pounding in his ears and he muttered angrily under his breath to himself. _What did Faeldor know anyway?_ Pelilas wondered bitterly. He had never experienced real tragedy; he did not know the sour taste of loss. Faeldor wasn't the one who lay awake, night after night, wondering foolishly when his father would return. Faeldor, with his perfect life and his perfect family, did not know the first meaning of the word loyalty.

Gwarth, Pelilas realized suddenly, was right. What was the point of remaining loyal to the most unfaithful mistress of all? Gondor had taken his father from him; who knows how many seaside villages the Great White City had robbed. Perhaps Gondor was no better than pillaging bands of Orcs. It was at Gondor's hand that his family had been sliced into pieces.

When he reached his house, Pelilas sat down on a small rock outside his front door. He was not ready to go inside yet, not while his pulse was still racing from the heat of his argument, not while he had the most important question to answer of all. Would he abandon his town, abandon Gondor, and stand beside the men that he'd always believed to be evil?

Evil. Pelilas turned the word over, whispering it to himself, feeling the syllables roll inside his mouth, against his teeth and tongue. From Gwarth's perspective, it was Gondor that was the real evil. Was there even a difference? Were heroes just villains in a different colored cloak?

The sound of a twig snapping interrupted Pelilas's musings. He snapped his head up and jumped to his feet with a start when he saw Gwarth approaching slowly, his hand glued to the hilt of his sword.

"Good evening," Gwarth said, his deep voice echoing against the twilight-covered trees.

"Hello," Pelilas said, clearing his throat.

"I knew that I would see you again soon. I did not think that our conversation the other afternoon would be our last."

"Neither did I," Pelilas answered, only realizing then that it was the truth.

"Is there something that you wish to tell me?" Gwarth asked, and Pelilas briefly wondered if this mysterious man could read his mind.

"What makes you think that I want to tell you something?"

Gwarth smiled, showing his gleaming teeth. Pelilas thought that they resembled fangs.

"You have a certain look in your eye," he replied. "It is the same look that my captain has on his face whenever he has something he needs to discuss."

Pelilas chewed on his lower lip nervously. This was his defining moment, he decided. It is so rare in life, he thought, that one realizes the severity of the action that he is about to commit, the importance of the words he was about to speak. He was paving his own destiny, writing his own story, clearly walking through his dreams.

"There is something I want to say," he finally said softly, "but I am afraid."

"Pelilas," Gwarth said sternly, "fear will get you nowhere."

He nodded, swallowing thickly. And then, he spoke.

"I hate Gondor."

Gwarth's smile widened.

"And I want it gone."

--

The bundle of wet clothes soaked Gailrin's arms to the bone as she carried her family's laundry to the line outside her house. She licked the last drops of stew that clung to her lips and smiled contently at the sound of clanging dishes that drifted out through the kitchen window, letting her know that Faeldor and Coruwen were doing their chores dutifully. She carefully hung each item of clothing, fastening sheets and tunics alike to the slim rope that was carefully threaded around two neighboring trees.

As she was nearing the end of the pile, Gailrin noticed a slice of red against the neutral colors of sundown. Her hands froze around one of Thurandír's shirts, and she squinted against the darkening sky.

There was a strange man walking towards Pelilas's house. His long black hair tumbled in knots down his spine, and his cloaks were a deep scarlet color. The golden jewels that dangled from his neck glittered under the setting sun, and Gailrin gasped sharply, turning her head so he would not see her.

With her dark hair covering one cheek, Gailrin gazed at the ground, catching her breath. Invisibility, nonchalance. She would not be found.

But she snuck one final little peek at the man through her curls, and decided to ignore the increase of her heartbeat, the tensing of her throat.

On the outside, however, she appeared completely calm.

--

A/N: Mm, Gailrin. What are you hiding?

I hope you guys liked this! More to come, for sure.


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